I don’t want you overwhelmed.”
He removed several forms.
There it was.
The first overreach.
He wanted authorization to communicate with insurers and financial institutions on my behalf while I recovered.
It wasn’t an outrageous request from a father caring for an injured daughter.
That was what made it useful.
People committing financial crimes rarely handed you a document labeled CRIME.
They handed you reasonable paperwork at unreasonable moments.
I picked up the first page with shaky fingers.
He watched my eyes instead of the paper.
“You don’t need to understand all of it,” he said.
“Just sign where I marked.”
I looked at him.
“Did Mom sign things too?”
His jaw tightened.
Barely.
“Your mother and I handled our finances together.”
That was a lie.
The bank records in Ortiz’s folder said otherwise.
I lowered my eyes again.
“I can’t remember the house.”
“That’s probably for the best.”
“Were you there?”
He hesitated.
“Of course.”
“Did you get me out?”
The question surprised him.
For half a second, there was nothing on his face.
Then the grieving hero returned.
“I tried,” he said.
“The smoke was everywhere.
I couldn’t reach either of you.
By the time I got outside, the fire had spread too fast.”
I looked at his hands.
No bandages.
No burns.
The same hands that claimed to have fought their way through a burning house were calmly arranging signature tabs on insurance forms.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
He leaned closer.
“You have nothing to be sorry for.”
I almost told him he did.
Instead I asked, “Where was I?”
He froze.
“What?”
“When it started.
Where was I?”
He glanced at the door.
Then back at me.
“Upstairs,” he said.
The room seemed to shrink.
I had never told him that.
According to Ortiz, neither had the firefighters.
My rescue location had not been released because investigators were still reconstructing the scene.
I kept my expression blank.
